


A soufflé isn't a soufflé; a soufflé is a recipe

by Macaron



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Soufflés
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 14:11:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16955565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macaron/pseuds/Macaron
Summary: "His mother's smell when she was cooking always stuck with him, hidden in a part of his mind, ready to sneak out in certain situations, just like that kid behind the door."For the prompt "I love fics that include Napoleon cooking, and would love to see a fic where Napoleon tries to teach Illya how to cook something. Basically anything is fine I just ask for nothing explicit/mature!"





	A soufflé isn't a soufflé; a soufflé is a recipe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sheila_amour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheila_amour/gifts).



They say that when you are dying you see all your life in front of your eyes. Illya Kuryakin was about to die so many time that he has almost lost count (not really true: seven where he was really close, fifteen close but not so much, five where he would have really cared) but never, not even once, saw his life in front of his eyes. He smelled his life, instead. No, not the smell of dead flesh, of blood coming out of a wound but always the smell of his mother in the kitchen. The smell of a boiling Boršč pot (and the sounds of the bubbles against the pot), the star anise and ginger of the Prjanik that she always made for the newyear eve when she allowed him to put the dough in the bird mold and steal a spoonful of honey. "Don't say to your father" She said, talking about the honey more than the cake. But Illya was so happy, so proud of himself (so young) that he couldn't held back. "You should let your mother do that kind of things, it's not a man job." said making all his pride vanish. After that time, he no longer asked his mother to let him put the dough in the mold but every time she cooked he had remained hidden near the door to smell, to feel all those perfumes, watching her cook. Hidden, because he wasn't allowed. He wasn't allowed to enjoy a cake, to learn how to cook, to be just a dumb kid. Dumb maybe, but never a kid.

His mother's smell when she was cooking always stuck with him, hidden in a part of his mind, ready to sneak out in certain situations, just like that kid behind the door.

"..., will you?"

Napoleon's voice interrupts his thoughts.

"What are you mumbling, Cowboy?" He could say "I didn’t hear you, I was distracted. Can you repeat, please? " but he is not like that. It would be so simple, for someone else.

"I asked you if you want to cut the chocolate," he replies, pointing at a block and a knife.

They are in a safe house, where they will have to stay for another three days. The first days they remained on guard, tense. Now Solo is relaxing, almost as if he found the pause pleasant (Illya hatesitr but wonders if in reality Solo feels relieved when he doesn’t have to work, as if he could think of himself as a person. Illya asks himself that and the three days of waiting don’t seem terrible to him). "I'm not going to keep eating canned soups just because you have no sense of taste," Solo said earlier, and that's why Illya ended up with a knife in his hand in front of a block of dark chocolate.

"How did you learn to cook?" He asks.

 "In France, of course. I had some free time between an art exhibition and the other and French cuisine is the most exciting right now."

It's not the answer to the question Illya just asked. What Illya wants to know it's the story behind the way Solo cuts the onions for the risotto, the way he smells the food at the restaurant. Solo always talks, always tells stories but he never tells his stories.

"Carefull with that chocolate! You don't need to kill him, it's already dead."

"You aren't even watching me." It's true, Solo is dividing the eggs.

He turns to him and their eyes meet.

"I'm always watching you, Peril. Even when I can't." And Illya doesn't know how to respond.

Should he say "I’m always watching you too "? as if he were a girl at her first crush? He's not even sure that was the meaning. He puts bugs in his shoes, there isn’t really another way to explain that Illya doesn’t think of anything but him. Even when he doesn’t want to.

"Now put that chocolate in a small pot and let it melt it on the stove. I'll whisk the egg whites."

Illya start to do it, stirring the chocolate with a spoon when Solo is near him. Damn he is really good as spy.

"Wait." Wait what? "Let me." He puts his hand on Illya's wrist covering the watch. Always staring at him. "You should take out your father's watch. I'm not sure that the strap is chocolate-proof" He smiles, almost flirty.

“What are you doing? Trying to steal my watch? Missing your days as thief?”

"If I had wanted to steal your watch you wouldn’t even notice it. I'm not stealing anything from you, Illya. I asked. "

"I'm not one of your marks." Illya says, because he needs to do it. Because Solo's hand is on his wrist.

"I know you aren't."

"Do you?"

Napoleon laughs. "Peril, you are something else." Is it a bad thing? Illya is usually bad things.

Napoleon reminds him of his mother. Illya realizes it for the first time at that moment, in front of a pot of melted chocolate. They don’t physically resemble each other, Illya has the same blond hair of his mother, but there's something about how they naturally flirt with all people. They have the same way of talking to you as if they were telling you a secret that they want to trust only to you. The same energy. The same way to make him feel. Insecure, excited and at the same time safe. Only he is not. Safe. He wasn’t with his mother, how  could he be with someone who invents stories to live, that seduces people?

"Peril you are... you are the reason someone burns the soufflè. " What the fuck are he saying? Solo laughs, his fingers caressing Illya's wrist, toying with his watch. "I know we haven't even started to preheat the oven, but you are. So you know. You aren't a marks, Illya."

He has no idea of what Solo is saying.

"I have no idea of what are you saying, Cowboy."

"Sabrina."

"Still nothing."

"The movie with Audrey Hepburn. The Soufflè scene." Solo looks horrified. "You really have no idea. Did you ever watch a movie? You know that the cinema exists, right?"

He is making a joke about him. He can't trust, he was right.  Except. Except that maybe he isn't making a joke about him, maybe he is joking with him. Except. Maybe.

"I have seen many movies."

"Porn doesn't count."

"I wasn't referring to porn, Cowboy. That's you, probably."

Napoleon smiles, rasing a eyebrow. "Oh that's me?" Illya can't help but smiles. His fingers starts to toy with Solo's. He can feel his pulse speed under his fingers. Or maybe it’s his heart. Or both. Or the chocolate.

"The chocolate is starting to burn, Napoleon."

"Let it burn."

 

**Author's Note:**

> English is obviously not my first language and I write it like Armie speaks russian (not so well and I haven't an ass like him). But! I'm a pastry chef and I loved this prompt. The Title is from Doctor who and Napoleone quotes Sabrina that thanks god was from 1954 or I wouldn't have know how to finish this fic.


End file.
